Garrick meandered down-mountain toward Maretown, the familiar sight of the valley settlement putting him at ease.

The town, lovingly ensconced between undulating hills and lazily winding streams, presented a picturesque view, one of nature's serenity and personable marvel. Cobbled streets, like ribbons woven through the town, were flanked by an assortment of shops and stalls, each ready to face the day.

As Garrick stepped off the eastern path and into the city proper, he immediately felt the shift from the quiet of his mountain home to the bustling life of the community, like putting one's head into the knot of a tree and finding a flurry of fluttering birds—which is not recommended unless one knows what they're doing. It was a lively scene in Maretown, and despite it being just a little past dawn, much busier here than usual, by the look of it.

Is something big going on? He wondered.

It was clear people were already engaged in their early morning business, the air filled with the comforting smell of bread from the Blackwood Family bakery (Garrick would be heading there soon) and the steady sound of metal being worked at Tomalina Heinz's forge (where Tomalina's grandfather, Chathburt, had once crafted a helmet for him.)

Walking through the market, Garrick received nods and warm greetings. In Maretown, his fame as an adventurer had faded, over twenty years since he'd last been popular for a different reason. Here, most people knew him simply as 'Garrick from the mountain,' a title he preferred and intended to maintain. Garrick, bumbling down several times a year, typically made a day of it—purchasing food and ingredients he didn't grow to serve him for the following few months and buying things that were low in stock. But despite wanting to dive right in, he had to remember he was there with a purpose today—to stock up for the long term and replace gear he might need for the journey coming in just a few short weeks.

And also baked goods, he smiled. You can never forget the baked goods.

Since he was right there, Garrick decided his first official destination (harmless browsing notwithstanding) was Tomalina Heinz's forge. The morning's tasks had just begun when he arrived, and Duffle, the young adlet apprentice, manned the forge at this early hour. With his dog-like appearance, with furry ears twitching at the sound of Garrick's approach, Duffle was concentrating intently on finishing up the sharpening of a set of plowshares, the rhythmic strokes of the file against metal ceasing as he noticed Garrick's greeting.

"Morning, Duffle!" Garrick called out cheerily, watching the adlet set aside his work, panting slightly from the forge's heat.

"Good morning, uh, Garrick!" Duffle responded, his voice friendly but carrying a hint of his characteristic timidness. "Just finishing up these plowshares for Farmer Henley."

Garrick nodded appreciatively, then asked, "And how's the apprenticeship going? Getting the hang of everything?"

Duffle, wiping his brow with the back of his hand, nodded.

"It's, uh, going well, thank you. Still trying to learn the best ways to interact when customers come around, though. I usually let Barker or Tusek handle that," he admitted candidly, referring to the other apprentices.

"A sensible choice. How's Tomalina? Still off in Highcrown?" Garrick inquired, recalling the smith's plans to visit her sister for the seasonal festivities.

"Yes, she's still there. Celebrating Pelathiem's holiday with her sister," Duffle confirmed. "Should, uh, be back next week, though."

Garrick's thoughts then turned to the journeyman smith, Petyr, who would be in charge in Tomalina's absence.

"And how's Petyr been treating you all? Keeping things running smoothly?"

Duffle sighed, resigned acceptance in his posture.

"He's been…fine. Petyr's making sure everything's in order for when Tomalina returns. Doesn't want her upset, so he's been keeping a close eye on Barker and Tusek. No, uh, cinder fights this time," he added, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his canid mouth.

Garrick chuckled at the mention of the infamous 'cinder fights.' He remembered the spring festival six months ago when Barker and Tusek had gotten into a spirited competition that had almost ended disastrously for the forge.

"That's probably for the best. Those two can be a handful when they get going," Garrick commented, remembering the near catastrophe with a shake of his head.

"Yes, definitely better this way," Duffle agreed, "so what brings you by, Mr. Garrick? Just to, uh…chat?"

Garrick smiled at the hesitation. No, Duffle was still working on his 'customer-forward' traits. He wouldn't torture him with a prolonged conversation.

"Actually, I have something in mind if you have the room on your job list."

Garrick reached into his pack and gently shifted Ember to one side—careful not to disturb her slumber—before withdrawing a few pieces of twisted metal. These were the hinges from his woodshed door, now more a collection of curious shapes than functioning hardware.

Holding them up to the early morning light filtering through the smoke and spark of the forge, he addressed Duffle, "I was wondering if I could place an order for new ones of these?"

Setting aside his current task, Duffle took the proffered hinges with a blend of curiosity and concern. He let out a low, surprised sound, the kind usually reserved for seeing a house on fire.

"Was this from that, uh, storm we had a few days back?" he inquired, examining the mangled metal closely.

Garrick couldn't help but chuckle at the question, a brief image of his spectral visitor swinging on the door flashing through his mind.

"Something like that. House guest," he explained.

"Some house guest," Duffle said, still examining the pieces.

For his part, though, Duffle didn't press further. Garrick had to assume that living in Maretown meant becoming accustomed to the eccentricities of its inhabitants, especially those of the adventuring sort. The adlet nodded, his fingers tracing the mangled lines of the hinges.

"They look, uh, pretty standard. I think I could have something ready for you by this afternoon. But I'll need Petyr to give the final say when he's back from his delivery."

"That sounds perfect, Duffle. I'll swing by later then," Garrick agreed, pleased with the swift solution to his problem. The idea of potentially securing his woodshed door properly before nightfall brought a sense of relief.

After navigating the complexities of practical errand-running and considering he'd spent nearly forty minutes not eating pastries, Garrick decided it was high time for a reward—namely, a visit to the most magical place in Bastion.

"A hard morning's work deserves a little indulgence," he happily muttered to himself, ignoring the fact that all he'd done so far was go to the blacksmith and have a bit of a chat.

The thought alone was enough to quicken his step, anticipation sweetening the air around him even more than the scent of fresh bread.

Only half a block down, it hadn't taken him long (especially at the pace he was moving,) but Garrick was there.

Finally!

His second favorite paradise: the Blackwood Family Bakery.

The bakery itself was a squat, sturdy structure nestled among a row of similarly quaint shops. Its whitewashed stone walls glowed softly in the morning light, while dark wooden beams added a flair of grandeur. A hand-painted sign featuring a loaf of bread and a cheerful pie swung gently above the door, issuing all manner of promises as to the delights within. Garrick was nearly certain that he could see that bread-and-pie crest anywhere—even in the depths of darkest despair—and it would bolster his resolve.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

As expected, the bakery was a hub of activity. Maretown residents, drawn by the magnetic pull of the Blackwood's famed confections, formed a bustling queue that spilled out the door. The air was alive with the sounds of friendly chatter, the clinking of coins, and the occasional sigh of contentment—chiefly from Garrick.

Finding himself in the thick of the morning rush, the old man joined the line with good-natured patience. This was, after all, part of the experience—the communal anticipation, the shared hunger for whatever wonders the Blackwoods had concocted today.

Halfway through his wait, a slight movement from his pack caught his attention. He reached up to find Ember stirring, her day beginning at the scent. With a gentle pat, he felt her nuzzle back, her warmth seeping into his palm.

"We're at the bakery, Ember," he whispered excitedly. "Hope they've got some viennoiseries left! Maybe the apple one? Oh! Or the cherry one!"

Truly, not much caused such intense excitement in the typically reserved old man like baked goods.

The promise of fresh, bready wonder seemed to reach even Ember's sleepy senses, a slight whine of anticipation escaping her.

Finally, after a journey that seemed to span ages in bakery-line time, Garrick reached the front of the queue. The bakery's interior was a trove of enticing aromas and bustling productivity. Garrick took a moment to breathe it in, the sweet, yeasty scent of baking dough mingling with the notes of fruits and spices.

Before him, rows of pastries sat majestically behind glass, the vision of perfection a feast for the eyes (and hopefully his stomach.) Each was a masterpiece, from flaky elfin crossbread layered with buttery precision to fruit tarts whose glossy tops shone like jewels. There were Gonlan silkpuffs filled with creamed cheese and topped with apricot or raspberry—Gonlan: the finest swords and the tastiest confections, all from one continent, Garrick thought—

…eclairs were gleaming with mousse and stuffed with light, creamy filling and scones dotted with currants or chunks of chocolate, promising that a single bite would be one of pure bliss. An assortment of muffins—blueberry, sugar acorn, and a seasonal candied watermelon—offered a savory, homey flair. At the same time, the cinnamon sweet rolls, thick and heavy with icing, dared anyone to resist their allure.

Unfortunately, however, Garrick did not see any viennoiseries—which, while saddening, still did not stifle his mood. There were plenty of other options. Garrick thought about how silly it was, considering that the word covered a wide variety of baked goods in his old world, many of which were currently on display. Still, for some inexplicable reason, it was the name of a very specific type of treat here in Bastion Province. It was similar to a danish, except it was lightly fried around the edges in butter and then covered in powdered sugar, caramel, and a dash of jam. To Garrick, it was an ambrosia the bards should have written songs about—though there were surprisingly few, to his recollection.

Maybe I'll pen my own tune? He thought. 'The Viennoiseries Verses' has a nice ring to it. Of course, I'd have to learn to play an instrument. And how to sing. And how to keep rhythm…but I think I've got the poetic heart to do it enough justice.

Behind the counter, the air was alive with the tumult of the bakers. They moved with a practiced efficiency that was almost balletic, pulling trays from the rows of massive ovens lining one wall. Another table groaned under the weight of fresh items being decorated or assembled; a dwarf baker stood on a stepladder, meticulously piping frosting onto a batch of cupcakes, while a half-elf woman sprinkled finishing touches of seawater salt onto what looked like the equivalent of caramel brownies.

Along the back, the pride of the bakery stood on display: rows upon rows of bread loaves. There were crusty wand breads, dense rye loaves, soft brier buns, and hearty bakes made of various grain confluences, each cooling on racks or wrapped and ready to find a home. It was all overwhelming but in the best possible way.

I wonder if you can be buried at a bakery once you die?

The bakery also offered a dine-in option, evident by the array of compact two-seater tables filled with patrons enjoying their breakfast treats. Save for one ambitious individual sitting alone and devouring an entire colossal sourdough loaf.

Kindred spirits, she and I, Garrick thought.

A secondary queue along the wall comprised individuals waiting for a seat, a clear sign of the bakery's popularity as a destination to linger and indulge. However, lingering too long might've been a bad idea if Garrick could tell anything from the impatient expressions on faces in the line.

Manning the front and taking orders was Jasper, son of Bellamy Blackwood, the bakery's owner. After a fresh return from a collegiate academy of some variety (he was terrible at remembering the names of institutions), he'd decided to spend the summer helping his family—or so Bellamy had told Garrick the last time he was in town. Garrick observed how the startlingly-handsome Jasper's presence seemed to brighten the day of many a patron, regardless of their race or gender. A group of women in the line, in fact, were gawking openly at him—though Jasper seemed not to notice, so intent on his customer service as he was.

Garrick chuckled. Had he ever been the recipient of attention like that?

Momentarily distracted, he refocused on the task at hand.

It's time.

With a nod to Jasper, he prepared to place his order, the list of desired treats mentally tallied and ready.

"Old Garrick!" Jasper exclaimed, clearly startled, his face transforming into a slightly terrified one. "I didn't see you in line!"

"Well, that's not my problem, young Blackwood," Garrick said with a sneer. "You know what I'm about. Always be on your guard."

"Yessir," Jasper said, his own expression growing just as serious as Garrick's had been. Then he shouted to the staff.

"It's time, fellas!"

As one, the kitchen staff began lining up behind the counter—tongs and handling parchment at the ready. At the end of the train of bakers, Jenma, a grizzled, experienced old half-orc woman, was hovering near the cloth delivery sacks.

His eyes still locked with the old man's, Jasper raised an eyebrow tauntingly, withdrawing a quill and pad of parchment from beneath the counter.

There was a long pause, neither of them saying anything. The atmosphere in the bakery actually quieted to nearly nothing as the tension built. Then, Jasper set the quill's tip on the pad and said, "Go."

Garrick launched into his order like a general marshaling his troops.

"I'll need three of your apple-spice turnovers, two raspberry almond tarts, and a half dozen of the chocolate-dipped silkpuffs," he began, his voice a steady stream of demand.

Jasper's quill danced across the parchment, keeping pace.

"Four cherry scones, a batch of the cinnamon sweet rolls—no, make that two batches," Garrick continued, hearing Jasper scratch out the original sweet roll order and correct it effortlessly.

Alright, kid, Garrick thought. Time to bring the thunder.

"One dozen of the sugar acorn muffins, three single turtledove dough balls, five rhubarb treacle surprises, two blueshoe walnut bars—one cut lengthwise, the other cut widthwise, gimme two candied watermelon muffins as well, and—" Garrick paused for dramatic effect, "—an entire tray of those sea salt caramel brownie things."

Jasper, his scribbling never faltering, merely nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards in a smirk.

"Will that be all…sir?" he asked as if he doubted the old man could possibly order more.

"Not by half, sonny-boy," Garrick shot back, undeterred. "I also need two of each bread loaf you've got cooling in the back—yes, including the brier buns. And throw in one of those gigantic sourdough loaves I saw the lady at the table wolfing down."

The bakers behind Jasper, previously a well-oiled machine of pastry preparation, paused in their movements, their eyes widening slightly at the scope of Garrick's request.

.

"And," Garrick added, as if it were an afterthought, "a dozen of your finest elfin crossbread, for good measure."

Jasper finished writing. The standoff concluded, Jasper looked up, his expression one of mock exasperation.

"Anything else, sir? A small castle to transport all this, perhaps?"

Garrick, finally breaking into a full grin, shook his head.

"No castle, young Blackwood. Just make sure it's packed tight; my fox and I have a long walk back."

Jasper turned back to the baker's in a very dignified way. The group waited, their hands hovering, ready to grab and wrap. Jasper cleared his throat.

“Plam, Zeke—two of every pan. The rest of you: Triple turny—apple, double raz-nut twistie, half-fleet choccy silkos, quad cherries, two hands of cinnies, full fleet shoog-corn, triple turty-doo, fist o' rhubie shockers, double deadfoot—one up the road, one 'cross the street; double melon-muff, and a full fleet of crosses! Jenma—you're wearin' the cap. Eighty-nine, all day!"

"Yes, chef!"

As the bakers scrambled to assemble Garrick's monumental order, the old adventurer leaned back, a satisfied sigh escaping him.

"Good to see you behind the counter again, Jasper," he said warmly. "Nice work. Expertly done."

Jasper returned a beaming smile.

"I've got a reputation to uphold," he said.

"Well, I've been taking it easy on these poor folk since you've been gone," Garrick continued. "Seems your additional education hasn't been keeping you from the important things."

Ever since Jasper was a tiny tyke, Garrick had been patronizing the Blackwood bakery, and this had always been their game. It started with a challenge long ago to test Jasper's skills behind the counter, which had turned into a fully-fledged tournament-level interaction any time he was in. The old man felt an immense sense of pride in having participated in some of the boy's—now young man's—development.

"What's the damage, then?" Garrick asked.

"Eighty-nine items…" Jasper said, tabulating the total mentally, "...comes to one silver, four copper trices."

There were whistles of appreciation for such a price, and Garrick suddenly wondered if any cutpurses in the crowd were set to give him some future trouble. But he dismissed it—if someone was good enough to take from him, they could have whatever they got. He reached into his trice pouch and pulled out the coin, leaving an extra five copper as a tip—a habit he never grew out of, no matter how long he'd been here.

Jasper wasn't one to argue; he snatched the glittering metal from the counter and nodded.

"Check out the moneybags," someone muttered.

"Gonna be any left for the rest of us?" wondered another.

Garrick could take the hint.

"I'd love to chat, but I am not one of those people who holds up a line for a little gab."

"No, you're just the one who requests a massive order at the counter," Jasper smiled, "forcing everyone to wait."

"Oi, I donnae mind," said an adlet man directly behind Garrick in line. "Were impressive t'see such a big order. Ye ken to eat all them y'self?"

"Shh. Don't bother the man, dear," whispered an adlet woman next to him, likely his wife. "A man that hungry's to be revered—give him a wide berth."

"Y'er a'ways shushing me, Berta," the adlet man whispered back. "Ye shounna do that'n mixed comp'ny."

Garrick, feeling a bit awkward now, thought it was time to take his leave.

"Well…" he said, eyeing the rest of the line behind him. "I'll…see you and your family at the Midsomr Bonfire, I suppose. We can catch up then."

"Yes. I'll see you, Old Garrick."

All intensity faded from his visage and was replaced by a very customer-service-friendly smile.

"Next, please."

—

Garrick, balancing a half-crate piled high with parchment-wrapped pastries, meandered down the bustling streets of Maretown. Atop this confectionary tower, Ember perched like a queen surveying her kingdom, her tail wagging in contentment.

"Careful, Ember," Garrick cautioned, "remember what happened last time."

Memories of the infamous 'Great Pie Tumble' incident danced in his mind—a mishap that had left both fox and man covered in apple filling and crust. But Ember seemed unfazed, her focus fixed on the horizon, playing her role as Garrick's vigilant aerial scout.

To the casual observer, Garrick's load might have appeared cumbersome but not overly heavy, its height seemingly making it a challenge to navigate the lively streets. Yet, Garrick moved with steps that were measured and sure. People catcalled, whistled, or even offered to help, but he sent them away, saying he had it handled.

The old man preferred it this way. He'd much rather avoid any connotations with immense strength that people might draw. Instead, he was satisfied with folk thinking he was just an older chap with impeccable balance.

Their destination loomed ahead, and when they reached it, Garrick could see the faded sign above the old oak door: Maretown Healing Hall. Garrick knew it well, as it was a sanctuary for those in need of extended care, for those wounds or maladies that were not so quick to heal—or, unfortunately, in some cases—unable to be mended at all.

Setting the towering pile of treats at the Hall's entrance, Garrick used the brass knocker to announce their delivery. With a quick scoop, Garrick reclaimed two of the topmost parcels before he and Ember vanished around the corner, leaving the Hall's inhabitants to discover their surprise.

To Garrick, it wouldn't be difficult to puzzle out who the mysterious benefactor was. You'd simply be on the lookout for the old mountain hermit who conveniently timed his visits with the drop-offs after assailing the Blackwood Bakery of half their morning creations. Still, Garrick preferred the anonymity of his gesture. The appreciation was implicit, and the act itself was reward enough. Plus, he reasoned, it spared him the discomfort of repeated thanks for a deed that felt as natural to him as breathing.

This act of generosity had become a tradition, a quiet contribution to the organization that had offered him so much in the past.

Offered us so much, he thought.

Safely out of view, Garrick secured the larger of the two parcels—the oversized sourdough loaf—into his satchel and unwrapped the second with childlike anticipation. Inside lay a Gonlan silkpuff, its exterior glistening invitingly.

"Well, Ember," he beamed, holding the delicacy aloft, "let's have our little treat and then get to the real business of the day."